


A Freak In Every Possible Way

by mywildrose223



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Insecurity, Poor Sherlock Holmes, Sally Donovan is a bitch, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sherlock hates himself, Triggers, no happy ending, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywildrose223/pseuds/mywildrose223
Summary: Please heed the tags! This story involves self-harm, so if this is a possible trigger for you, please tread carefully.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	A Freak In Every Possible Way

His leg  _ itched _ . Sherlock flexed his hand to resist the urge to scratch his thigh. If he gave in, the cuts might start to bleed, staining his trousers, and then John might notice. The whole point of choosing his thighs as the location of his self-harm was so that no one would notice or possibly see,  _ especially _ John. Knowing John, he’d be concerned because self-harming is  _ a bit not good _ and he’d encourage Sherlock to get help. Sherlock didn’t need help. He was perfectly in control. The cuts weren’t very deep, and he always cleaned them and the knife. Everything was  _ fine _ . He didn’t need help.

What set him off the day before was ridiculous. It wasn’t anything Sherlock hadn’t told himself before. Sure, the insults the yarders threw at him stung, but he usually tried to not let their cruel words get to him. 

He and John had just finished up a case, both still riding on an adrenaline rush and full of pride. John was in Lestrade’s office, filling out the necessary paperwork to officially close the case. Sherlock had ventured off in search of a cup of coffee, despite the yard’s reputation of having notoriously horrendous coffee. But Sherlock was desperate for caffeine, as he would feel the after-case rush quickly fading. He was about to turn the corner to where he knew the coffee machine would be when he heard it.

“Heard Holmes solved your team’s case,” someone remarked.

Sherlock was able to recognize the second voice as Sally Donovan’s. “Well, you heard  _ wrong _ .  _ The freak _ ran off with his pet and somehow managed to catch the murderer. They didn’t do any of the actual work! We busted our arses off, working crime scenes, interviewing suspects… Then Lestrade calls the freak in who points a finger at the brother-in-law of the first victim and his pet kept the man from leaving when they went to interrogate him  _ unsupervised _ and without approval! They could’ve ruined everything! If the freak could just keep his ugly face away from our crime scenes we’d all be a lot happier.”

“From everything I’ve heard, Holmes sounds terrible. I’d hate to actually meet him. What’s he like?” The first voice asked.

“Besides from his nonexistent manners, he’s arrogant and a freak in every possible way. He doesn’t even look normal. If it wasn’t for his brain, the boss would never even associate himself with him.”

“Is he really that weird looking?”

“You should see him! His face is all angular and his eyes seem like they’re looking right through you… That’s why I call him “freak.” He looks and acts like one.”

At this point, Sherlock couldn’t stand hearing any more. He turned on his heel and began walking in the opposite direction as quickly as his long _ too long, too weird, too freakish _ legs would take him. He wanted to return home to Baker Street as soon as possible,

He drew in a shuddery breath, knowing eventually he wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears any longer.

_ Just get home. Don’t let them see you. Don’t show them you really are the freak they say you are. No one wants to see you cry. Stop being pathetic. _

Sherlock waved down a cab and got in. 

“221 Baker Street,” he managed to get out.

His throat felt constricted. Breathing was difficult. At any moment, he knew he would break down.

_ Not until you get home. Not here. Not now. Pull it together, be a man. You’re pathetic. No wonder no one likes you. You’re ugly and disgusting. Crying will only make you look worse. _

He was barely aware of the cab’s arrival to his flat and of paying the driver. Sherlock was entirely focused on getting to his bedroom. His entire brain was focused on his bedside table where a small razor was.

Sherlock made it to his room and opened the drawer. He looked at the light reflecting off the the metal razor. Picking it up, he went into the loo and grabbed the isopropyl alcohol from under the sink, took off his trousers, and sat on the edge of the bath.

Looking down at his  _ fat, disgusting _ thigh and the razor, he took a deep breath before lowering the blade to his skin. The metal felt cool at first, until he pressed down. As he slowly dragged the blade through his skin, it felt like it was leaving a trail of fire. He honestly didn’t like the sensation, it’s what came after that he wanted. 

Sherlock raised the blade and watched as blood started rising from the wound. It was fascinating to observe the bright red juxtaposed against his pale skin. The sharp sting beginning to radiate from the wound was  _ glorious _ . He brought the blade back down and made several more cuts on his thigh. He didn’t stop until he had an even dozen. A few trails of blood ran down his thigh and dripped onto the tile floor. Sherlock just continued to stare at his cut thigh.

_ No one wants you because you’re disgusting. You’re not good enough. Why would anyone want to be friends or especially lovers with a freak? You’ll never find anyone. You’ll always be alone. You’re disgusting. _

Sherlock felt the tears falling from his eyes, hot against cheeks. He wished he could just stop existing for a while. He was so  _ tired _ of living. It  _ hurt _ , everything hurt.

Still crying, Sherlock went through the motions of cleaning and bandaging his self-inflicted wounds. He cleaned the blood and got rid of the evidence. John could never find out.

Laying down on his bed, Sherlock continued to silently cry. He heard when John came home, muttering angrily about “arrogant arseholes who always leave him behind.”

_ You’re so worthless even your best friend hates you. Why would he want to stay friends with you when you’re such a terrible person? He only lives at Baker Street because he can’t afford anywhere else, he doesn’t actually like you. Who would want to be around the freak? _

_ No one would miss you if you were gone. _

_ Not Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. _

_ And especially not John. _

_ You’d be better off dead. _


End file.
